"I still have more memories to offer you, Nero," Dumbledore said gravely.
"They will be painful to watch. Believe me."
His voice was heavy, filled with something deeper than sorrow, perhaps regret.
"We can continue this another time if you wish."
Nero's fists clenched at his sides.
He had already come this far. Stopping now would be meaningless.
"Please, Grandpa," he said, his voice steady. "I wish to continue."
Dumbledore studied him for a long moment, as if searching for hesitation.
Finding none, he gave a weary nod.
"Very well," he murmured. "Then let us face this together."
He uncorked a small vial and poured its contents into the Pensieve.
The silvery liquid swirled like living mercury, distorting and shifting before settling into the surface.
Then, without another word, Dumbledore placed a reassuring hand on Nero's shoulder and together, they stepped into the memory.
It began with a scream.
A raw, primal wail that split through the air like a jagged knife.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"
The world around them had changed.
They stood in a dimly lit chamber, its walls lined with ancient tomes, scattered parchment, and shattered glass.
Strange symbols pulsed along the floor, their crimson glow flickering erratically, as if the very magic within them recoiled in horror.
And there, in the center of the chaos, was her.
A woman with disheveled blonde hair, cradling something, no, someone, in her trembling arms.
Her shoulders shook violently, her breaths coming in sharp, uneven gasps.
Her eyes…
They were black. Pitch black.
Madness dripped from her every word, her every movement.
"WHy? WHy? Why? WHy? WHy? WHy? Why? WHy? WHy? WHy? Why? WHy? WHy? WHy?"
Her voice rose and fell erratically, the same word spilling from her lips over and over, as though repeating it would somehow force the universe to answer.
"I just… I just wanted to help create a world where everyone could become a wizard," she whispered. Her voice was fragile, shattered.
A figure stood near the edge of the room, half-shrouded in shadow.
Jonathan Ravenclaw.
His face was unreadable, his silver-blue eyes cold as winter frost.
Cassandra turned toward him, desperation etched into every fiber of her being.
"Tell me, Jonathan. Was I wrong?"
Jonathan remained silent.
Her grip tightened around the still bundle in her arms.
"It's the sixth," she whispered. Her breath hitched, her body trembling violently. "The sixth child we lost. Stillborn. All of them."
A hollow laugh bubbled from her lips, unnatural and cracked.
"It's that bastard Dark Lord's curse. As long as I do not give him the result of my research, I will be unable to bear a living child."
Her laughter grew louder, sharper, until it became something that no longer resembled laughter at all.
"How ironic, isn't it?" she spat, her blackened eyes gleaming. "Me, the woman who wished to use the Principle of Life so that every child in the world could be born a wizard… And yet I can't even bring a single child into this world. Not a wizard, not a squib, not even a muggle."
A pause.
Then she threw her head back and laughed.
A hollow, twisted, broken sound.
"Hahahahahaha… How ironic. Don't you think so, Jonathan?"
He did not answer.
He simply watched.
The memory shifted.
The air turned colder.
Nero gasped as the scenery melted away, replaced by a desolate, fog-laden village.
Dumbledore's voice echoed in the void.
"Cassandra was falling further… and further… into darkness."
His voice was distant, filled with an aching sadness.
"She abandoned her previous research, cast aside the woman she once was, and buried herself in the abyss. She sought out those who dealt in the Principles of Soul, Death, and Life, desperate for answers."
The scene sharpened.
They were standing at the edge of a massive ritual circle.
The stench of blood was suffocating.
Nearly a hundred bodies lay scattered across the clearing.
Most were unconscious.
The few who remained awake were screaming, their eyes wide with terror.
But they could not move.
Their bodies were bound by invisible force, their mouths hanging open in silent agony.
At the center of it all stood Cassandra.
Her once-golden hair was now streaked with silver, her face gaunt, her robes tattered.
She stood above the broken bodies like a queen among corpses, her arms raised high, her fingers curled as if grasping at something unseen.
Dark magic coiled around her, slithering through the air like living tendrils.
She was speaking. Chanting.
A ritual.
A terrible ritual.
Nero could barely understand the words, but their very sound scraped against his soul like rusted knives.
"Lir'ash uldar vas q'thel, sha'karnet mala…"
Her voice grew louder, each syllable shaking the very air.
"Vey'nasha sil'quara, O Warden of Souls… Give back what was taken!"
A blinding crimson light erupted from the circle.
The villagers' screams turned to wails of agony.
Their bodies convulsed.
One by one, their souls were ripped from their flesh, white, ghostly wisps that tore themselves free, leaving behind nothing but lifeless husks.
The air trembled.
And then, nothing.
The ritual… had failed.
The souls did not return.
Her child did not return. The madness cracked.
Her expression contorted, twisting, warping, until the only thing left was rage.
Pure, unfiltered rage.
"NO! NO! NO! NO! NOT AGAIN"
A blast of magic exploded from her body.
Most of the unconscious villagers died instantly, their bodies crumbling into dust.
Lightning crackled in the sky.
Winds howled.
Cassandra let out an inhuman shriek, raw power pouring from her like a storm without end.
"WHY WON'T YOU COME BACK?!"
She lashed out, magic striking everything, the trees, the ground, the very air around her.
And yet…
Jonathan did nothing.
He simply stood at the edge of the ritual, watching.
Unmoving.
Silent.
Observing.
The memory faded.
Nero stumbled back, his breath ragged.
Dumbledore exhaled softly, his expression grim.
Silence.
A suffocating silence.
Nero's heart pounded in his chest.
What had she become?
And more importantly…
Why did Jonathan do nothing to stop her?
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